The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.

Now who would have predicted that?

Sunday, 8 June 2008

Lemon and rosemary chicken, and train jam

13st 10lb; 8.5 units of alcohol yesterday; 1,336; Cape Desolation.

One of the many things about which the LTCB has consistently mocked me is my anal approach to scheduling, so it was a real delight to find her setting the alarm clock for 8.30 this morning, after working backwards through all the things she needed to do before my aunt arrived for lunch at 12.30. Though in fact our guest was half an hour later than that, having been trapped in the street where she lives by a policeman guarding some sort of parade. “There’s a load of teddy bears going past now - on motorbikes” she reported at one point, in a particularly glum answering machine message which could only invite the question: why? Clearly not a grant of freedom march for some soldiers back from Afghanistan, then.

Still, it was a beautifully warm day so we were able to take the rare opportunity to sit outside in the sunshine sipping an aperitif while we waited for Auntie to turn up. When she did so, the LTCB’s roast lemon and rosemary chicken proved completely delicious, while the accompanying roast potatoes, carrots and parsnips were a triumph. The following baked nectarines with Doddington ice cream were equally enjoyable, and I detected that my aunt was impressed. Indeed, I began to suspect that they were getting on rather too well as whenever I stepped out of the room my return seemed to interrupt a most entertaining exchange about some impossibly grumpy old bloke with whom they are apparently both acquainted. I never did find out who he was.

The LTCB intercepted a barmy intruder in my kitchen while making coffee: some mad old bat who claimed, when challenged, to be looking for my next door neighbour. At least she was not armed and did not have the presence of mind to grab one of my own kitchen knives before I escorted her firmly off the premises. Perhaps the days of leaving doors unlocked are over even in this remote part of England.

I took the LTCB to Alnmouth for the 16.47 to York, and returned home feeling lonelier than I have done for some considerable time. But obviously happier than the person who was delayed by such a train jam in York station that she missed her second connection in Manchester, thereby turned a tiring and tedious 4.5 hour journey into a 5.5 hour one.

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About Me

Keith Hann is a serial quitter: professionally as a historian (the last days of the British Empire), then an investment analyst (the last days of the British food industry) and finally as a financial public relations consultant (the last days of pretty much any company that was deluded enough to hire him). In each case he packed it in just when there might have been some chance of making a few quid out of it. Then there is his personal life score: engagements 4, marriages 1. For the last few years Keith has been indulging himself as a hobby journalist. It seems unlikely that he will ever make a living out of this. And if he ever shows signs of making it Big, his resignation will be going straight into the post. In November 2007 Keith started blogging (a) to take the mickey out of the genre, (b) because a misguided friend told him that it was the ideal way to secure his Big Break as a writer, and (c) to chronicle the final days of a dying breed of solitary English curmudgeon. Nothing remarkable about any of that, except that it somehow convinced a beautiful, funny young woman that she had finally met the man of her dreams. As we always say Up North, there’s nowt so queer as folk.